


Devil on the Left, Angel on the Right

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [14]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Captivity, Exhibitionism, M/M, Muzzles, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian is half angel, half demon; a rarity and a prince in Hell, as raised by his mother. For his eighteenth birthday, he's given a captive angel, Jason, to do whatever he wants with. But despite his demon upbringing, Jason can see the potential for good in Damian, and that just might mean that God's put him down in Hell to try and set the half-blood on the right path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/gifts).



> Hello! So, I've kind of dived headfirst into this story. This one is a 100 Themes one; 44, 'Two Roads', featuring angel!Jason, and half-blood, demon/angel hybrid!Damian. It's kind of horrible but I'm having lots of fun with it. Hope you enjoy!

He’s there the day that the angel is brought in. It’s thrashing against chains that glow with the kind of light-devouring darkness he associates with his family’s power, snarling into the length of chain dragged between its white teeth with eyes blazing white and powerful. It’s hurt; one massive white wing hanging crooked where both are strapped down to the creature’s back, and with streaks of copper blood staining its skin and the remainder of its clothing.

The demons are struggling with it, three trying to pull this creature along, even with the chains limiting its movements. They have their own wounds, black blood splattering the ground as the angel fights them, jerking its weight around with a strength that obviously surpasses theirs.

It’s a split second, and he’s young, but the sight burns itself into his mind and refuses to leave, as though branded there by one of the higher powers of their world.

Copper blood, blazing white eyes, great white wings that _shone_ , tanned skin laid over hard muscle, thick but short black hair that swept the back of the creature’s neck, and a height and mass that easily dwarfed the demons beside it. _Power_ , as easy to see as his grandfather’s, or his mother’s.

Then the creature is gone, and he looks away from the open door and returns to his work; deciphering the Enochian texts laid out before him. It gives him intense headaches to read it — the angel blood in his veins isn’t thick enough to make it painless — but he _can_ , which is more than the rest of his family.

His mother never even knows he saw the creature at all.

* * *

It’s years later that his mother guides him into the depths of their stronghold, far past any of the corridors he’s ever seen before — his studies don’t leave him much time to wander — and into a length of cells that’s dark and hot enough to make him uncomfortable, though his mother is unaffected. He can stand it colder than she can, thanks to his split heritage, but there are heats that will make him falter where she does not.

He’s been told time and time again that his mixed blood makes him near unique in history; a miracle or curse working to bring him into existence where it should not have been possible. There have been others, centuries or sometimes millennia apart, but few survived their term of pregnancy and even fewer survived infancy. If he reaches adulthood without being discovered and killed — his health seems to be fine, as far as anyone can tell — he should have nearly unmatched power, with the exception of some archangels.

His mother’s hand stays between his shoulderblades, guiding him forward and to the very last cell on the left. “Damian,” she starts, as she opens the door, “it’s time to meet the other half of your blood.”

He steps inside at her none-too-gentle push, gaze drawn immediately and inevitably to the form lying on the floor at the back wall.

It’s not the magnificent, powerful creature he remembers, but that hardly surprises him. After years in his family’s captivity, he’s only amazed it’s still alive at all, though they do like to make their captives suffer. Clearly, this creature was no exception, and they’ve certainly done quite a bit of work on it.

Chains run from its wrists to the side walls, lying slack on the floor, and more from its ankles to the floor beneath it, with far less give. It’s nude, stripped of the shredded clothes he remembers, and those enormous wings no longer glow white and strong. They’re loose, no longer bound to its back either, but the awkward angles to them suggest that even though they’re free, they’re hardly in working condition. In addition to being obviously broken, the feathers are spotted, some tips blackened and he honestly can’t say if it’s coloring or them having been burned that way. There are patches where feathers are missing, and he can see a few of the obviously ripped out ones scattered across the floor of the cell. Those are a dirty gray, with none of that slight shine.

Its skin has an unhealthy pale tinge beneath the apparently natural tan, and is covered in all sorts of marks that scream of torture. Bruises, half-healed burns, welts, scratches, and even one or two deeper, longer lacerations with actual stitches holding them closed. The muscle remains, but it’s closer to bone now, more desperate and starved looking than a measure of strength. The black hair is a little longer, shaggily cut and falling around its neck.

“This is an angel,” his mother informs him, closing the door behind them.

When the creature lifts its head its eyes are a blue-green mix, no longer glowing with brilliant power but not the hazed, broken things he was expecting. Instead, they’re narrowed in a mixture of wariness and anger, and they capture his attention intensely enough that it takes him a moment to notice the dark, leather muzzle strapped to the bottom half of its face, holding its jaw closed and only allowing it to breathe through its nose.

He recognizes what his mother is doing; attempting to give him only this beaten version of an angel for him to base his opinion off of, and trying to convince him that the angel half of him is weaker and inferior to the demon as a rule. He’s been witness to his mother and grandfather’s manipulations too often for them to work nearly as well on him, and he still _remembers_ that glimpse of this creature when it was powerful and probably exquisitely dangerous.

“The cell seems too small for any real work,” he comments, instead of any of the other thoughts in his head.

The angel gathers itself, legs shifting beneath it to brace on the floor, and arms pressing to raise itself partially off the stone. Though it must undoubtedly hurt for the creature to move, given the state of its wings and the injuries he can see, there’s no trace of it in the gaze fixed on him. Instead there’s a predatory sort of grace to its movements, and to the look it's giving him. Something that implies that given a moment’s chance it would try to rip his throat out with its bare hands. It might actually even be capable of that.

His mother gives a soft sound of amusement, hand sliding away from his back. “The castle is malleable, this deep into its depths. Watch.”

He’s loath to turn away from the angel, but he forces himself to look back and watch as his mother presses her hand to the wall beside the door, dark power threading through the stone and sliding around the walls. Chain rattles, and he jerks his head back in time to catch the angel slide to a crouch — balancing on its toes and the fingers of both hands — as the walls start to move with a loud rumbling grind of stone on stone. The back and side walls move away, leaving the angel in the center of a much larger room, and the purpose of the long chains becomes clear as the slack lessens, eventually dragging both of the creature’s arms up and forcing it to stand, exposed and much more vulnerable.

Its knees are slightly bent, weight swung a bit towards the left, probably in some instinctive attempt to protect a rather vivid splash of bruising across the right side of its waist that suggests some degree of internal damage. Its hands are in loose fists, but there’s almost no give in the chains holding its arms, unlike the foot or so of slack at its ankles.

“You can approach it, Damian. Keep a step away though; it will harm you if you give it the chance to, beast that it is.”

“Is that the reason for the muzzle?” he asks, as he takes the permission to heart and moves closer to the angel, studying it. It studies him right back.

“Indeed,” his mother confirms, slipping forward until one of her hands can snap out, grabbing a handful of the angel’s black hair — despite the growling, angry sound it makes, like some kind of real _beast_ — and yanking its head back a bit to bare its throat. “It had a nasty habit of biting, even after we made it regrow all its teeth a few times.” The angel swallows, pulls a bit against the chains, and his mother smiles. “Angels don’t need to eat, and its mouth was no use, so we sewed it shut and locked this muzzle on him. Wouldn’t want to give it a chance to rip out our hard work, would we?”

“Of course not,” he answers, because it’s expected.

His mother lets go of the hair between her fingers, and the angel’s head lowers to guard its throat again, eyes narrowed and furious as it growls down at both of them. It turns on him, growl rising to a sharp snarl as it _lunges_ tight against the chains, only actually gaining a few inches but the _intent_ behind the action and the sharp flare of white _power_ in its eyes is enough to make him jump back, his own power rising to the top of his skin and his wings bursting from his back as fight or flight kicks in.

His mother strikes in the next moment, landing a precise blow to that bruised section of the creature’s side. It twists into the attack, white fading from its eyes to leave only pained blue-green as it gives a muffled shout, before his mother grabs it by the throat with her other hand. He stares, eyes wide, as she shakes the angel once, nails digging into its skin.

“Do _not_ threaten my son,” she hisses, teeth baring for a moment before she raises her other hand and beckons him closer. “Damian, put those away and come here. Even if this creature had the power left to do anything more than scratch you, the chains prevent it from being used.” Her grip tightens, and the angel jerks backwards the half inch it can to try and get away. “And if it were to harm you in any way, I would ensure that the harm was repaid to the fullest extent. Somewhere in that tiny mind, I’m sure it knows better than to tempt such a fate.”

He’s not entirely convinced, considering the look in the angel’s eyes, but he does as he’s been ordered. He forces his wings back away, absorbed into a more human — or demon — form where they belong, if he is not actively using them, and approaches his mother again. Cautious as he is, he tries not to let it show. His mother would not approve of the weakness, and it is her displeasure he ought to fear, not the anger of a weak, bound, injured angel.

Even if what his mother has been trying to drill into his head all his life is incorrect (that angels are weaker, pathetic, of a _lesser_ intelligence), this angel is no real threat to him. Not with the injuries it already bears, and the presence of his mother right beside him.

He steps up beside her, and her hand presses between his shoulder blades as she glances down to him, still maintaining her grip on the angel’s throat. “This angel is intended for you, my son; a gift from your grandfather. When you are older, it will be officially given to you, to do with as you please. He expects you to keep it as a pet; for the status it represents.”

The angel snarls, jerking again; probably at the revelation that its eventual purpose is to be a simple trophy, but a second blow to its injured side silences it.

His mother lightly ruffles his hair as she releases the creature’s throat, and then offers him a thin, dangerous smile. “Until then, your study of torture will be refined on this beast’s skin. Barring a few more permanent aspects, of course.”

“What aspects?” he asks, even as he stares up at the angel.

“Anything it does not have the power to reverse; full loss of larger limbs, similar damage to its wings, or the loss of its purity.” He looks up at that, and then watches as his mother reaches out and drags her fingers back through the creature’s hair, holding it still again. “That’s yours, Damian, for when you’re old enough. An angel’s loss of purity can only happen once, and this one’s belongs to you. I suppose, if you wish, you could have it taken whenever you wish, but I would advise waiting until you can do it yourself. A memory like that is to be treasured.”

The angel shudders, pulling back though there is nowhere to go, and makes a noise that sounds remarkably similar to a fiercely unhappy cat; a muffled yowl of both fury and desperation that rises and then slides into a low, growling snarl. He almost shivers at the sound, but luckily manages to restrain the reaction, even as something deep in his gut curls at the thought of further _harming_ the only angel he has ever met.

He reaches out, touching the skin near the angel’s hip and then sliding his fingers up the warm flesh, to the heat of the swollen, bruised side. It feels no different than a regular human’s skin.

Narrowed, blue-green eyes with more than a touch of desperation look down at him, a second shudder shaking the angel, and he finds himself asking, “What is its name?”

His mother rolls her shoulders in a graceful shrug, and releases her handful of black hair. “Whatever you wish it to be. If you choose to give it one at all. It is a possession, Damian, not a person. Do not forget that.” The angel jerks against the chains, snarls again at that, but his mother ignores it. “Let’s get started; I believe heat is an appropriate first tool.”

And though the twist in his gut remains, though the gaze of the angel _pleads_ with him, he obeys.

* * *

The day of his eighteenth — in human years, ignoring the distortion on time in hell — birthday is when the gift becomes official. His mother has kept both him and the rest of the demons away from the creature for a few months, and it was a fairly closely guarded secret to begin with, so when it’s led out at his celebration an immediate hush falls.

He straightens up in his chair — to the left of and below his grandfather’s — and feels his breath catch in his throat.

It’s being led by a demon, bound by nothing more than shackles with an attached chain and heavy straps of leather binding its wings closed, with dark, glowing runes worked into the leather, undoubtedly to keep its power contained. The years of injury are gone from its skin, leaving only that perfect tan in its place, and though the creature is not the same powerhouse of muscle he remembers, it has regained some of its bulk and its glow. The muzzle is still there, but its hair has been cut more professionally, with just enough to get a good handful in left on its skull, and its been dressed in simple cloth; a pair of white linen pants and a matching sleeveless top.

It seems to be obeying the pull of the chain attached to its wrists, seems willing to be pulled to the front of the room and the base of the steps leading to his grandfather’s throne, but there’s a sharp edge to its gaze that he recognizes from all the time he’s spent with the angel. It’s not willing, it’s simply waiting.

“Damian,” his grandfather calls, and he pulls his gaze from the creature and stands from his seat at the beckoning tone.

“Yes, Grandfather?”

The words are ritual and unnecessary; completely for the benefit of the uninformed in the room as his grandfather gives a sharp smile and extends a hand towards the angel. “My gift to you, Grandson. It is yours, to do with as you wish.”

The demon holding the chain kneels, offering it up, and the angel strikes in a sudden burst of movement. One leg lashes out, slamming a heel into the side of the kneeling idiot’s head, and the first crunch is only slightly less loud than the second one when its head hits the ground. The angel calmly pulls its so-called ‘leash’ from the twitching demon’s lax hands, curling the length of chain in one of its hands, then steps forward and crushes its downed opponent’s throat with one brutal downwards stomp. The flick of its gaze up to meet his is clear challenge, and he can’t help smirking.

“Good to see that the pleasure of breaking you will be _mine_ ,” he says, as he gets to his feet and lets his wings flare outwards from his back a bit, showcasing their mix of black and golden feathers. He hasn’t hidden his wings in years, not since he fully realized the _fear_ they inspire in his subordinates. Neither his mother nor grandfather much appreciate the sight, but they haven’t stopped him either. He’s nearly as powerful as his mother, these days.

The angel faces him, blue-green eyes narrowed and without even a thread of the fear he’s usually viewed with. He remembers how refreshing that is. Even in its most agonized moments at his hand, the angel never looked at him with fear. Wariness, generally, and with flat knowledge of the pain he was capable of dishing out, but it was never scared of him. Never scared of any of them, as far as he’s aware.

“I believe a show of force is in order,” his grandfather comments, clearly as an order, and not the suggestion it’s worded as. “Damian, perhaps you would do the honors of putting it in its place?”

“As you wish, Grandfather,” he concedes, not taking his gaze away from the angel’s.

If he could see the creature's mouth he imagines it would be in a snarl, given the anger in its gaze and the way it shifts, muscle coiling but not quite tensing. He flares his wings further, watches that anger make the small jump into _fury_ , and then leaps. His wings beat down once, slowing the fall just enough to make him hover in the air for a moment as he gathers power to his hands and lashes out in the same breath. The dark power slices downwards, just a fraction ahead of him as he starts to fall.

He's not positive what he's expecting his opponent to do, but it's certainly not for the angel to spin in and underneath the spread of one of his wings with an ease that speaks of long practice. His power crackles harmlessly into the ground, he lands on his toes and starts to turn, and the angel slams into his back. The shackles hook around his throat, a leg impacting with the backs of his to drive him to his knees before the angel buries a knee in the center of his back and draws back on the chain against his throat. His spine arches, and he chokes for a moment before he gets his hands up and around the angel's wrists and beats his wings, pushing himself back as he snarls and bodily flips the angel over his head.

It might be bigger than him, but it's clearly not at full strength and he has the advantage of _power_.

It's already twisting as it falls, landing on the tips of its fingers and toes instead of flat on its back, and he can see the white power sparking in its eyes, contained beneath its skin but definitely _there_. Excitement brightens his senses, the ache of the forming bruises against his throat forgotten in the face of the creature already gathering itself to attack.

He meets it, mouth curling in a feral grin as instinct overwhelms thoughts of strategy and he just _attacks_. The angel grapples with him, nails digging into his skin as it slams him into the ground, and then he retaliates with a knee to its gut that makes it fall backwards with a huff of air that slides into a growl. Despite the animalistic nature of its attacks, he's discovering there is _skill_ behind it. More skill than he has, if he's honest, and that thrills him in a way that's probably a little bit too dangerous to allow. It's not as though he'd forgotten that the angel was deadly, but more that he'd forgotten that it was quite _this_ deadly.

In every practiced twist, within every glance of its almost glowing eyes, there's a vicious, calculating, intelligence. It's the reminder he needed to recall that not only is the angel dangerous just by virtue of what it is, but that it is a _warrior_. This is a creature that's been fighting demons and waging war for likely hundreds of years, and it still lives. Even bound, even weak, it is nothing to be trifled with.

But he has the strength, and he's spent every moment of his life in training in one thing or another. A large part of that has been devoted to combat, and while he may not have this creature's experience, he is not something to be trifled with either.

He manages to get on top of the angel, slam its head back against the stone floor to stun it, and then shreds the linen shirt, tearing it from the creature's chest as he slides to his feet and backs several feet away. He does not believe either his grandfather or his mother would allow him to actually be killed — his kind are too obscenely rare for that — but they might allow him to be seriously injured before stepping in, if he lets the angel get the upper hand. He's had his time to explore the angel's strength and experience, now's the time to wind things higher before it ends.

This is more than just a fight; it's a show. He's supposed to be putting the angel in its place, and proving himself master of it. If he falters, if he doesn't perform correctly, it makes all of them look bad. His power will be questioned, his position, his right to even have such a creature if he cannot properly control it. That cannot be allowed.

The angel slides back into motion, rising to a crouch and then to its feet in the span of a moment. He starts to circle the angel, and it snarls in the back of its throat and, instead of simply turning to keep him in sight, starts to circle him as well. It's a strange, back and forth sort of dance, but it gives him the time to realize that his victory is not so far as others might imagine.

Whether it's from the exertion, the lingering weakness, or the blow to its head he doesn't know, but the angel is tiring. He can see it in the slight downwards curl to its shoulders, the dip of its head, and the lack of that sparking white power to its eyes.

He smirks and it glares at him, clenching its hands to tight fists. Then it's coiling and lashing out with one arm, the loops of chain held in its hand flying out towards his chest with a rattle. Without really thinking about it he jerks an arm up, catching the end of the chain as it flies through the air towards his head and _yanking_ it towards him. The angel's eyes widen and it stumbles at the pull, arms pulled harshly forward by his strength. Combat instinct has him raise a leg, reeling the chain in with his hand before getting his foot on top of it and pushing down to pin it against the floor. The angel falls to its knees, the shackles pulling tight against its wrists and yanking it to the floor as the chain drags it down. Then he spins, pivoting on the foot pressed down over the chain so he can crack his other foot across the angel's face with all the force of that spin.

It slams to the floor, giving a muffled shout of pain into the muzzle, eyes squeezing shut. For a moment he wonders if he struck it too hard, before he casts the thought aside and steps off the chain, keeping it in his hands to keep the angel held close even as he kicks it in the side to put it on its back. It's breathing hard, almost imperceptibly trembling, and when it tries to gather its legs he kicks its right thigh back down hard enough that he hears something crack, and it cries out.

Using its pain, he hooks his foot underneath its side and flips it onto its stomach, dragging its arms up above its head with the chain and then planting his foot right between its shoulder blades to hold it down, feathers brushing his ankle on either side as he bears his weight down into it. It struggles a bit, but it's the work of just a moment to loop some of the slack of the chain around its throat, pinning its hands at its own throat and then dragging the chain tight enough to dig in and make it choke. Which is when he steps off, pulling on the chain and dragging it across the floor by its throat until he's standing at the foot of the stairs to his grandfather's throne.

He takes the moment of silence — there's pride in his mother's eyes — to press his foot back down between the angel's wings, pinning it just in case it gets any more ideas to struggle, despite its losing fight to gain air against the wrap of the chain around its throat.

"Was that an adequate enough show of force, Grandfather?" he asks, holding the chain taut.

His grandfather has a pleased smirk on his face, one leg crossed over the other. "Yes, Damian. Now you have a prize to claim, do you not? An angel's loss of purity is something to be remembered, and the angel clearly needs a lesson to teach it its place."

He can hear the other demons in the room — semi-useful lieutenants and the like, as well as servants — stir, hear the murmur and nearly _feel_ the envy and greed at his back. Logically, he knows what his grandfather — what they _all_ — want. A show. His grandfather is trying to play him to his best advantage and he understands and respects that, but this time he has no intention of going along with it. There's a _fierce_ curl of possessiveness in his chest, and while he'll give them the show they want, he is not willing to allow them to share in the taking of something so rare. That is _his_.

The angel gives a breathless growl, probably reacting to the idea of being violated so publicly, but he ignores it and only offers a sharp smirk.

"I prefer to save that for somewhere with no eyes other than mine, but perhaps just a _taste_."

He yanks the angel around so they're not facing his grandfather directly, kneeling down over its back and the tightly bound mass of its wings, keeping the chain at its throat held tight as he works open his pants with his free hand and grasps himself. He's hard from the fight, from the _thrill_ , and he doesn't bother with slow or teasing. He strokes himself fast, knows the angel understands when it starts to really struggle again, and he has to press the hand holding the chain to the back of its skull to bear his weight down and keep it pinned.

Ignoring his audience comes as second nature; this isn't his first public coupling and it likely won't be his last. There is very little shame among demons, and he is a _god_ among them because of his heritage. The rare few who managed to get him interested enough to take what he wanted were more likely to desire that it happened in public, so _everyone_ would know that he had touched them individually. He's never cared for privacy before, was raised with only the barest modicum of it given his family and his various trainers and watchers, but this is different. He'll humiliate the angel for their enjoyment, _hurt_ it if he must, but what he wants to do to it? He has no intention of ever allowing anyone to see the angel's pleasure but himself, not if it's as glorious and amazingly sacrilegious as he thinks it's going to be.

The energy in the room rises as he does, as the angel beneath him spits breathless sounds of anger and desperation, struggling but unable to break away from him. His wings flare outwards as he hits breaking point, back arching up a touch and his mouth curling into a snarl as he forces his eyes to remain open so he can watch. Pleasure bursts beneath his skin and in his gut, and he strangles back any sound as he comes, the angel jerking beneath him as his release splatters between its shoulders and along the top of its wings.

He takes a moment to breathe, and to watch the trembling of its muscles, though he's not positive whether the shaking is humiliation or rage. He supposes he'll find out when he lets the creature up.

Tucking himself away one-handed is easy enough, and once he's positive that he can react properly to any abrupt attacks he slackens the chain around its throat and pushes himself up to stand over it. It curls onto its side as he steps away, legs drawing in and for a moment he thinks he's managed to actually really scare it, until it looks up. There's frustrated, humiliated, _fury_ in its eyes, and it looks like it would be lunging for his throat if it thought it could get away with it, but it stays down as he looks up towards his grandfather.

The only thing he gets is a pleased smirk, and he dips his head and then jerks on the chain so it draws tight again for a moment. "Thank you for the gift, Grandfather. Please excuse me so I may properly appreciate it."

His mother is smiling, gaze lowered to the angel, but he gives only a glance before holding his grandfather's gaze. If it is _demanded_ that he give more, he will have no other option except to risk that the angel be taken from him entirely, but if he has guessed right, this should have been sufficient enough to grant him the ability to explore the angel in private.

As expected, his grandfather nods and flicks one dismissive hand. "Go, Damian. Enjoy your gift."

He bows this time, shallower than any other being but his mother would be expected to, and then turns away so he can drag his angel from the throne room. The demons part to allow him to go, and his angel struggles, but can't get the chain away from its throat with its hands trapped as they are, and whatever damage he's done to its leg. It's unlikely that it's anything serious enough to truly cripple the angel; he's seen the kind of damage it can take over the years, and its lack of scars proves that its regenerative abilities are extremely thorough.

He relaxes just a touch when they're out from under the envious eyes of the demons, letting his wings settle more comfortably against his back and slowing his stride a touch. Navigating to his quarters is simple enough, and he relaxes even further once they're both safely behind the locked, warded protection of his door. Then he lets go of the chain and walks to the bars of his window, pulling the shutters closed before he lights the room with a flick of his fingers. Soft electric lights, to keep up with modern technology, and a few scattered candles for the atmosphere.

He turns at the rattle of chain, watching the angel draw itself to its knees, chain no longer looped around its throat. It stills when their gazes meet, and then he looks away, crossing the room by circling it, giving the angel space as he steps into the adjoined bathroom. Older styles here, with a large, stone bath inlaid in the floor and a smaller shower beside it, to rinse off first. He retrieves a cloth from within the marble and dark wood cabinets, dampens it in the stone basin, and then returns to the bedroom.

The angel has its right leg stretched out, fingers sliding over its thigh in a clear attempt to assess injury, but it stops the instant he's in the room. The leg draws back beneath it as it faces him, not quite standing but clearly ready to attack or run from anything he tries.

As a peace offering, he holds up the damp cloth.

It stares at him, hesitating, and then slowly, carefully, dips its head an inch and turns away the same fraction, offering him a small slice of its back. He approaches just as slowly, and it watches him the entire way, right up until he's standing at its shoulder and the cloth touches its skin. It shifts downwards, bringing itself within easier reach as it sinks to its knees, head twisted over its shoulder to watch him but its back open beneath his hands. In repayment for the concession, he keeps his touch gentle as he cleans the angel's back and wings of both his own release and the grit from being dragged across the floor.

He stays silent as he does, until finally, when he's almost done, he asks, "Did I hurt you?"

The angel stirs at his voice, shifting to look a bit further over its shoulder and meet his gaze. After a moment, it shakes its head a touch and looks away, actually leaving him at its back without supervision. He supposes that anything he can do to the angel, he could do whether or not he's being watched. Observation won't change anything.

"Good," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He folds the cloth over when he's done with the last bit of his cleaning, rubbing it up and over the angel's shoulders one more time before tossing it aside. Then he circles around to the angel's front, sinking to his knees to be at more equal of a height before he reaches forward. It growls when he picks up the loose end of the chain attached to its shackles, but he doesn't let it phase him. He slowly passes the chain through his fingers until he can follow it to the shackles, holding the angel's gaze the entire time until his hands touch the sturdier metal of the shackles. Then he lowers his gaze, finding the connection of the chain to the shackles and taking it between his fingers.

He pulls a bit of his power from underneath his skin, letting it slide into the metal of the chain until its inundated enough that he can shatter the connecting link with a pointed thought, and the rest of the chain falls to the floor. The angel is watching him when he raises his gaze, something almost confused in its expression, right alongside something considering.

Before he can think about what he's saying, there are words falling between his lips.

"I would not have chosen that show," he says between them, not raising his voice or averting his gaze. "Make of it what you will, I suppose, but I would not have chosen your humiliation if the choice had been mine."

The angel snorts, pulls its hands away with a sharp yank and glares down at him. Even without words, the 'yeah right' is clear enough.

So he picks the chain up from the floor and gets to his feet, drawing away so he can store the chain somewhere the angel can't get to it to use it as a weapon. "Do you think I am lying?" he says over his shoulder.

When he turns around, the angel is standing as well — just barely favoring its right leg — and pointedly, crudely, mimes jacking off before it growls and then makes a gesture he's _fairly_ sure is meant to mean that if it happens again, the angel is going to either rip 'it' off or snap it in two. That part's a bit unclear.

"Fair enough," he agrees, resealing the lock on the chest he's stashed the chain in. "However my choices were that, to risk you being taken from me completely, or to do more than simply 'mark' you. Would you have preferred I take you with that audience watching?"

The angel glares harder for a moment, then gives another growl and rolls its shoulders in a way he recognizes as wanting to spread his wings. He's watched himself in the mirror enough times to recognize the muscular tic. He peers at the muzzle, and then firmly decides that this simply _isn't_ going to work. He approaches, holding his hands out to try and show a lack of threat, and the angel lets him approach until he's standing before it. It's when he reaches up towards its face that the trouble starts.

It jerks away from his reaching fingers, and he tries to follow before it lashes out and smacks his hand away with its bound ones. He scowls a bit as it growls, and snaps, " _Be still_ ," which, after he's said it, he realizes was probably not the best thing to say to get it to do what he wants.

It snarls louder, steps back, and he grabs hold of the chain between its shackles with one hand and reaches up with the other. He has to dodge one knee aimed at his gut before he gets a hold of a handful of black hair and yanks the angel forward. Its nails dig into his wrist, and he hisses between his teeth and then bares them when he slides his other hand back and finds the lace and straps for the muzzle, giving them a pointed tug that jerks the angel's head back a bit.

Its nails are dug into his skin, but it doesn't dig any further, just blinks wide, startled eyes at him.

He scoffs, tugs at the straps again, and spits, "I cannot undo this one handed, angel."

There's a pause, but then the angel lets go of his hand, and he raises it up to join the other at the back of its skull. It shudders as he loosens the straps by touch, undoes the laces, and then finally, carefully, eases it free. It seems frozen stiff, and as he drops the muzzle off to the side he examines the thick, black string woven through its lips, binding them together. Any wounds surrounding them have long since healed, but the threads are thick enough to not snap just by pulling. He rests a careful hand on its jaw, and it flinches away from the touch, wide, wild eyes staring at him as it breathes in sharp, sudden bursts.

It takes him a few moments to realize that he is touching skin that hasn't been touched in over a decade of human time, and he gentles his touch even further at that realization.

"Easy," he murmurs, stroking his thumb over its cheek, to the corner of that mouth. Slowly, making sure that it sees his hand move, he reaches for the small knife hidden within his clothes. It shudders a bit when it comes out, tenses as if to draw away, and he repeats, "Easy."

He carefully tilts its head a bit downwards, lowering his gaze to its mouth so that the angle is right when his knife comes up. It growls a little bit, tenses further, but doesn't stop him from sliding the knife underneath that drawn thread and very carefully cutting through it. Then the next, and the one after that, until only one connection remains. Then he stores the knife — notices the angel tracking where it is; unsurprising — and reaches back up. It winces when he starts pulling the cut threads loose, but doesn't pull away even though whatever sensation it's feeling is clearly uncomfortable. When the last thread is out he lowers his other hand, leaving only the one resting against its jaw.

The angel shudders, and he can feel the muscles of its jaw shifting, stretching a bit, before those pierced lips part on a small breath. It breathes in, eyes drifting closed as it inhales long and slow, and then exhales just as slowly. The second breath is more normal, and then there's the flicker of a tongue as it slips out, wetting its lips. Its eyes open again, gaze lowering to find his.

"There," he comments. "Unlike my mother, I rather prefer it when the things I speak with are capable of speaking back. Do you remember how, angel?"

Its eyes narrow, and it draws sharply away from his hand as it glares, any gratitude apparently ruined by his choice of words. Unwilling to let the angel withdraw, he snaps his hand forward and grabs its hair, keeping it close. It pulls against the grip, but doesn't outright yank away.

"I asked you a question," he points out, with a bit of irritation. "Can you still speak?" It pulls a little harder, and he jerks it forward again and snarls, "Use your tongue or see it ripped out, angel!"

 _Anger_ sparks in the angel's eyes, and then its mouth curls, baring teeth for the first time in probably a _very_ long time. " _Screw_ you," it spits, in a voice low and rough with disuse.

He stares, grinds his teeth together, and then lets go and admits, "I suppose that does count."

It stares at him for a second, snorts, and then it closes its eyes and breathes out something similar to a laugh. Strange and rough, clearly the laugh of someone who hasn't been physically capable of it for a long time, but recognizable. Some of the irritation bleeds away, and he crosses his arms and asks, "Do you have a name at least?"

Another moment, and then it rasps, "Jason, and I'm not a _thing_ or _yours_."

He studies the angel. "I suppose since possess at least some intelligence, you are indeed not a thing... Jason. But that does not mean you are not mine."

"Yeah, we'll see about _that_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! So, it's terrible, but I had fun writing this. It's Jason's PoV, so you get to see the other side of this. Enjoy! A note here, this chapter contains the rape mentioned in the tags. It's non-graphic, but there.

From the very start, Jason never believes that his capture is some kind of divine plan. He _can't_ believe that God actually wants him in the captivity of demons, wants him to suffer, wants him to _hurt_ like he does. Believing that God would condemn him to something like this — the loss of his dignity, his strength, his _voice_ — for no reason that he can see hurts too much for him to even consider it could be true. He's always been kind of iffy on the idea that God knows all and plans all anyway, so it isn't that big of a change for him to just consider this some random, painful twist of fate.

It's the same way that he never lets himself believe that there might be a rescue. His family loves him, he _knows_ that they do with every fiber of his soul, but he's deep in Hell, and trying to mount a rescue would be tantamount to suicide. The number of brothers they would lose if they tried to storm Hell would be… Too many. He's not worth that many lives and he knows it. He doesn't _want_ that kind of sacrifice laid on his shoulders.

It doesn't stop him from praying for them in his weaker moments, from _screaming_ their names when it's all he can do not to scream for God himself, but he forgives himself that. Prayers don't make their way out of Hell; he can cry and scream for his family all he wants, but they won't hear him and that's _good_. He doesn't want to subject any of them to his suffering.

He lets himself wait with patient acceptance for some kind of opening, for some method of escape or even just any chance he gets to do damage. Escape is, honestly, a pipe dream, but whatever damage he can do down here, whatever attention he can keep, is something not focused on his family. That thought fuels him, keeps him defiant and resistant despite the years of agony that pass.

Every second spent hurting him is a second they're wasting, so he works to get as much of their attention as he possibly can. Makes it a _challenge_.

And then he meets the boy.

Young, corrupted but one look almost _blinds_ him with the potential shining from the kid's soul. There's darkness there, inky and black like his mother, Talia, but _God_ , the potential for good in the boy is brighter than any being he's ever seen. It _shines_ like the sun, and he has to shutter his vision away so he can focus properly on the kid, on enduring the pain he knows is coming.

More years pass, and he hardens to the pain. It still affects him, but he learns to shut it away, to only deal with it right in that moment and to give _nothing_ else away. If anything, the years somehow manage to make him stronger, if less capable of caring. It's a sacrifice he's willing to make; it's not as if he has any chance of ever escaping this place.

He starts to believe that they've done something to his sight too, somehow interfered with an ability they shouldn't even know exists. Because all the years he watches the half-blood boy grow, all the years Talia spends molding her son into a confident killer and torturer, training him to sadism and enforcing the belief that Jason is _less_ than them — a beast, a creature, a thing to be _owned_ — the boy's potential for good never diminishes. It never fades, even as the darkness grows beside it and he watches the half-blood embrace their way of thinking so completely.

It isn't until he 'belongs' to Damian, officially, that the belief that his sight is wrong wavers. It's in the careful brush of the damp cloth to his shoulders and wings, the removal of that damn _muzzle_ and the thread binding his mouth closed, the gentle touch to almost painfully sensitive skin, and the soft reassurance when he almost panicked, when it _hurt_ to be touched.

He takes a glance at the half-blood, sees the darkness but also the _light_ , the _good_. He doesn't know what to think of that. He doesn't know how to process the idea that one of his most frequent torturers of more than a _decade_ is so very capable of kindness, and compassion. It makes no sense to him that anyone could do so much _evil_ , but still apparently be able to turn around and more than outweigh those bad deeds.

The idea that maybe God _did_ put him down here for a reason, for _this_ reason, shakes him in ways he's not sure he can deal with.

It shakes him even more that he's not sure that after all this time, after so much suffering, he's still capable of the kind of persuasive good that might coax Damian to the right path. God, what if he's _not?_ If this even is some kind of mission, what if God chose the wrong angel for it? He's never been good at the whole charm thing; he's always just been stubborn and powerful and the person sent to track down those souls that couldn't possibly be redeemed.

How is he supposed to raise a soul from Hell when all he's ever done is send them down here?

"Are you praying?" Damian asks, and he almost flinches.

He opens his eyes and raises his head from where it's leaned against the wall, bowed down over his shackled wrists. It takes him a moment to understand why Damian would ask, and then another to decide to answer, "Questioning." Honesty; it feels right in his chest. "No point in praying," he adds, as he leans his head against the wall again.

It feels strange to talk, after so many years of being unable to. His voice is nothing like how he remembers it, and it sounds bizarre to his ears now. Rough and hoarse, grating through his throat from the depths of his chest like it never did before. He doesn't know how much is the years of enforced silence, and how much is the damage left over from Damian nearly strangling him with a chain. Doesn't care to know.

"Have you given up that completely?" It's a sharp demand, but edged with something strangely concerned.

"Given up on what?" He has to swallow, work moisture into his throat so his voice comes out as more than a whisper. "Escape was always practically impossible; rescue was never coming. Never allowed myself to believe either would happen."

He watches Damian step closer, doesn't react.

"Most would not have been able to survive so many years in my family's cells without some hope to cling to," Damian points out, and he snorts and tilts his head to look up at the half-blood more directly.

"Never said that. Every second attention was on me, it _wasn't_ on my brothers. Every demon I hurt, every demon I killed, was one more they would never have to face." He shifts his arms, pulling lightly on the shackles binding his wrists. "Their lives are worth my suffering; I would make the same trade a thousand more times. And I will, before this is over."

"You expect me to make you suffer?" Damian asks, and he looks up again.

"Am I wrong?" he counters, bluntly.

Damian's eyes narrow, and then, carefully, the half-blood sinks down to crouch beside him, one hand bracing against the floor for balance. Close enough for him to strike, if he thought it would do any good. If he wanted to.

Is there a part of him that wants to hurt the half-blood? Absolutely. But... But he'd watched the kid grow, watched Damian's demon mother sink her claws into the half-blood's mind and twist him how she wanted him. Even if his sight is wrong, even if Damian _isn't_ capable of the good that his sight can see, it's still not really the half-blood's fault. He knows — doesn't have to _ask_ — that Damian has never known anything but Hell. He's the only angel that Damian has ever met, the only example of his kind — of half of Damian's _soul_ — that the boy has, and if he's cruel, if he lets himself give into his desire for vengeance...

He can't. It isn't Damian's fault that he's never been shown any path but this one, and it's _not_ going to help if he rejects the half-blood. If there's any chance of him converting the misguided kid to a better road, of showing him a better life, it has to be by example. He _has_ to be as good as he's capable of, has to put the past behind him and forgive the boy for the pain he's caused.

That could take a bit of time.

Damian is studying him, and he does his best to meet the considering gaze steadily. Then the half-blood gives an irritated sounding huff and sits down on the floor, crossing his legs and letting both hands rest on his knees. Those blue eyes watch him, and it's weirdly familiar from more than just the years of torture and captivity.

He snorts at the thought.

"What?" the half-blood snaps, clearly taking it as laughter aimed at him.

He shakes his head a bit, then shrugs and says, "You have your father's eyes."

Damian's eyes widen, breath catching as he freezes up for a moment. There's a note of sharp interest when the kid breathes, "You know my father?"

He hums confirmation, letting himself lean a little more heavily against the wall. "Yeah; Bruce. He's my commander. You look a lot like him, especially—” He cuts off for a moment, and then swallows away the desire to not give Damian the information he obviously wants and continues. "You have his wings. Not the black, but the gold. His wings are the most brilliant, shining gold; when he spreads them out the light makes him look like the _sun_. It's blinding."

"I've heard stories," Damian murmurs. "They say he's killed hundreds of my ki— my _mother's_ kind."

He wonders at the distinction for a moment, then shakes it off. "It's probably closer to thousands," he corrects. "He's brilliant, deadly; makes _me_ look like a fledgling most of the time with the kind of skill he has. He can be harsh, ruthless sometimes, but he's always made sure that my brothers and I were as safe as could be, and he— He never had to treat us as family, but he always did."

Damian is silent for a moment, before he says, "He must not have been good at it, considering where you ended up."

He lashes out without thinking about it, lunging forward fast and with enough force to get Damian on his back, hands twisting into the fabric at the half-blood's shoulders.

"Don't you _dare_ ," he snarls, as Damian's hands wrap around his wrists with enough force to bruise. "You know _nothing_ about him or my family, half-blood. Keep your mouth shut or I'll rip your damned tongue out myself."

Damian sneers, and he can see the flicker of dark power in those eyes. "You would not _dare_ the kind of agony I would inflict on you, angel. I will speak as I wish; you cannot—”

He jerks Damian up an inch, _slams_ him back against the floor hard enough to cut him off and then pulls a growl from deep in his chest, ignoring the growing pressure around his wrists and the dull pain of it.

"You think you know what I'd _dare_ , Damian? You think I'm _frightened_ of you?"

Damian growls back, then surges up and flings him off. He hits the ground hard on his bound wings, rolling, and before he can manage to get his legs underneath him Damian is leaping, black and golden wings flaring and beating to give that extra bit of momentum. He manages to get over far enough to catch Damian as he comes in, rolling them both across the floor as they struggle. He gets a hard blow to the stomach, and gives a headbutt, before Damian gets him pinned down on his back, wrists twisted and pinned back behind his head by the shackles.

He struggles, but Damian is solid and the flared wings give the balance needed to make it hard to destabilize the half-blood. If he just had his hands, or _his_ wings, it would be a different story. He's still weak, he knows that, but he's got more skill than Damian does, and he _knows_ how to fight someone with wings. Knows it arguably better than he knows how to fight someone without them.

Damian snarls down at him, voice low and breath hot against his face as the half-blood spits, "You _will not_ harm me without repercussion, angel. I am your _owner_ , your _master_ , and if you were to ever _dare_ attempt what you speak of I would make sure you scream until you have no voice left to beg for my mercy. Is that clear?"

He jerks against the shackles, turns his head to meet Damian's gaze directly and bares his teeth. "You have _nothing_ to threaten me with, boy. Anything you can dream, your mother put me through years before you even _met_ me. Weren't you warned that I had a nasty habit of _biting?_ " He snaps his teeth to make the point.

There's a sort of frustrated anger to Damian's expression, and the half-blood makes a sound that matches and presses his free hand down into the center of his chest, compressing his lungs somewhat. "Do not make this harder than it needs to be. Whatever you believe, I do not wish to torture you, Jason. I have no interest in harming you; do not _fight_."

He can't help the burst of breathless laughter that rushes up his throat, even though there's only a crazed kind of amusement to it, and it comes out through a snarl. "You took a hunter of damned souls and tortured him for years. Took my life and my voice, made me _suffer_ , and then you call yourself my _owner_ and expect me to _submit?!_ "

The sound that comes up out of his throat is some kind of furious, pained, _shriek_ , and it actually seems to startle Damian somewhat. Those wings flare bigger, feathers puffing up as the half-blood flinches back, but the hands holding him down only tighten, and the weight pressed down between his legs and over his torso doesn't ease enough for him to really struggle.

He tries, but Damian is stronger than him, has him at a disadvantage, and he _hurts_. He aches and he trembles and he feels so _weak_ that the half-blood above him feels impossibly, immovably powerful. There's _pain_ in his chest, and he drags at what power is left inside him and brings it up inside his skin, where the wards carved into his shackles and the leather straps holding his wings _burn_ against it, holding him contained and all but helpless as he tries to fight.

The bright, shining light of Damian's potential for good nearly blinds him as his careful restraint of his sight slips, and he shakes, fights harder for the few moments he can manage the extra energy. It has to be a lie, it has to be false. He _can't_ be here to try and save this corrupted half-blood because that means God condemned him to years and _years_ of suffering and he just can't— He _can't_.

A second shriek bursts from his chest, more pained and less furious, as his strength fades. He breathes hard, through his teeth, and has to stop struggling. It doesn't stop him from trembling, from more than just the ache of his injuries and the weakness in his muscles. God, he _hurts_.

His eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the world as best he can as he tries to push away the pain welling in his chest. It doesn't work. It only grows, sinking into his bones until he has to grit his teeth together and twist his head to the side, away from the length of Damian's arm where it's pressed past his head and holding the chain between his shackles to the ground. His breath comes faster, and he tries to hold it, tries to force himself to be still.

"You are in pain."

He jerks at the quiet voice, eyes snapping open.

Damian is watching him, too close and too intently, but there's a strange edge to that blue gaze, almost unnerved. "I did not think— You did not seem affected."

The laugh comes out bitter, and a harder shudder shakes him, makes him twist his wrists against the shackles until it hurts just to feel grounded for a moment. "How can you—? _God_ , you think that I'm some beast, that I'm just a creature and a thing to be owned, weak and _lesser_. But then somehow you have it in your head that I can just— I can just _take_ over a decade of torture and not even _care?_ What do you think I am? What do you _want_ from me?"

"I—” Damian swallows, staring down at him. "I want to _possess_ you," the half-blood breathes, body shifting over his and he doesn't have the energy to react to the predatory movement. "I want your pain and your pleasure to belong to me, to keep you locked up in this room so no one ever has the chance to admire you again. I want you to be _mine_ , Jason, body and soul and mind." A slight pause, before Damian shifts above him and murmurs, "I want to be inside you, angel. As the first to ever breach and truly _take_ you."

He shivers, pain sinking down into his gut as he tries not to be too hyper-aware of the body between his thighs.

"You don't know what that will do to me," he whispers, voice shaking a bit. "Don't. Whatever good is left in your heart; _don't_."

Damian pauses, and then gives a small shake of his head. "In this, I do not have a choice either. It is expected; I must perform."

He gets dragged to his feet when Damian moves off of him, still holding his shackles behind his head. His legs aren't as shaky as the rest of him, but they pretty quickly get there when their destination becomes clear, and he's dragged up onto the bed that dominates the room. He fights, but his struggles are hardly even worth mentioning, and Damian is completely unaffected by them. His shackles get hooked to a chain at the top of the headboard, into a metal loop in the wall that he's pretty positive won't break. Then, Damian swings a leg in to press down over his, pinning them semi-securely to the bed as deft fingers undo the strings holding the cheap linen pants on and then drag them down his thighs. It's almost a relief to have his ankles strapped to the corners of the bed as well, leaving him spread wide and at the half-blood's mercy, more or less.

If he's bound down, that means it's not his fault. It means that no matter how he struggles, he won't get loose, and he _can't_ be blamed for the actions that are about to happen. He can't be condemned just for not having the strength to break free from a more well-rested and physically powerful opponent. He can't be condemned for not _stopping_ this.

He shudders at the feeling of fingers against his inner thighs, tilts his head back and tries not to look.

" _Don't_ ," he tries again, as Damian's hands brush higher, pushing his legs further apart with easy strength. "If you— You don't _know_. Just _don't_."

The hands pause, lingering on his thighs but not traveling up, and then Damian shifts forward to kneel higher over him. "If I had the choice," Damian tells him, gaze completely clear of any sign of deception, "I would leave you your purity, Jason. From what has been explained to me, I may take you nearly as much as I wish to, and it is bringing you to your own pleasure that causes the loss. Given that, I would gladly fulfill my own desire without taking this from you."

"It's not—” he cuts himself off from explaining, from trying to correct the idea that it's just the physical act that corrupts. If that were true, the first priority of any demon army would be to set the creatures of lust and desire loose on his kind. It's not that simple, but…

He's already lost too much of himself down here. He's already starting to be corrupted and he doesn't have the strength or the solitude required to fix it. He needs _time_ to recover and guard himself against any more attacks before he truly starts to fall, especially against attacks like these.

He's been humiliated before; Damian wasn't the first to paint his skin with seed, but things have never pushed further than that. He was always being saved for the half-blood on top of him now. Sex also isn't the anathema to him that Damian likely believes, because he's shared pleasure with his brothers before, but always with _consent_. Always with _acceptance_ and _joy_. Not once has it ever been less than a comfort and shared love. There was no harm in pleasure so long as it was wanted and did not detract from his duties. But this? _This is wrong_.

"Why?" he almost begs, as Damian watches him.

Damian actually hesitates, and then one hand rises and touches his jaw, traces a thumb to his lips to linger for just half a moment before pulling away. "Because I wish to, because I think you will be utterly beautiful in the depths of pleasure, and because…” Damian trails off, and then those blue eyes harden, hand pressing down in the center of his chest. "Because believe me or not, this protects us both from far worse scenarios. I am _expected_ to hurt you, to enjoy you, to _take_ you. If we are seen again and I have not, what do you believe will happen? My grandfather already wished for me to claim your purity in front of an audience; if I disappoint him that _will_ be demanded, and I will not be able to be anything but cruel to you.

"I do wish to possess you, and I cannot pretend dissatisfaction over the fact that I am about to fulfill that desire, however I _am_ protecting us both, Jason. If my grandfather believes anything but that I am using you, and _hurting_ you, I have no doubt he will take you from me." He opens his mouth, a biting insult on the tip of his tongue, before Damian points out, "Imagine for just a _moment_ that my mother had ownership of you instead, now that your purity is no longer something to be protected. I do not expect you to surrender to this fate, Jason, but believe me when I say that as it stands I am your best outcome."

He chokes a little bit on the swell of a hopeless laugh, and whispers, "That's not a _comfort_."

"You—” Damian swallows, and then dips his head a touch. "You have my— my understanding. How would you prefer this to happen?"

"Don't—” He grits his teeth, glares for the moment he can manage it and then hisses, "Don't you _dare_ make me choose this. You're going to use me then _use me_ , but I _will not_ help you in my own violation."

What hurts, past the knowledge of what he's about to have to endure, is that he _knows_ that Damian isn't exactly wrong and he can't— he can't _blame_ the half-blood for not knowing a better way. He can't blame Damian for not understanding how absolutely, irreparably wrong it is to force yourself on someone else, not with Hell being the only place he's ever known. No one's ever taught the half-blood anything but violence and cruelty, never taught him any other way to have things than to just take them, and it's— it's a good thing that even with all of that conditioning, Damian doesn't _want_ to hurt him. It's a good thing that Damian at least recognizes that this is wrong, on some level.

He has to remember that.

He closes his eyes, twists his head to hide his face against his arm and holds as still as he can manage. If he can just _take_ it, just endure like he's managed everything else, he might be able to keep himself from any further corruption. He might be able to manage this. It's not a very good option, but it's the best hope he has. If he gives in, he might fall farther than he can manage to reverse.

There's a moment of silence, before Damian murmurs, "Very well."

He doesn't look up as the bed shifts, holds back any reaction but a small flinch when fingers slide up his thigh and further. He doesn't — can't — relax, and doesn't want to, so the first press of a slick finger doesn't get far inside him. Damian draws the hand away, and he can't decide if it's better or worse when those fingers wrap around him instead. He grits his teeth, clenches his hands to fists, but refuses to look. Refuses to bear witness to the slow, inevitable betrayal of his body's nerves.

Faced with that coil of heat in his gut, the second time that finger pushes it slides inside him. He shudders, nearly bites his own arm but holds the urge back, at the first soul-deep feeling of violation. Not for the first time, he wishes that he was better at distancing himself from the physical world. He had brothers that could slip inside their minds and cut themselves off from the pain of their body until it was repaired, with stunning ease, but he's never been good at that. He can do it, with enough time and focus, but he's never managed to cut off from torture while it was still happening. He's only ever managed to minimize the pain afterwards, and only until his captors came back.

If he could just distance himself from this, it would be easier to take. He could stay neutral to it, to all the implications, and not have to deal with any of this until it was over and done with. He wouldn't have to deal with the pleasure rising in his veins, with the feeling of the fingers working him slowly, intimately open against his will.

It's just another form of torture; he has to remember that. It's just a more physical form of torture, with a different weapon than usual, and just because it's sexual shouldn't give it more power over him. His body's responses have been used against him before; this isn't any different.

But it _is_.

Damian withdraws, and he can hear the rustle of clothing before there's heat, pressure, and a _push_. His back arches as the half-blood slides inside him, limbs straining tight against the chains binding them as he strangles a cry, keeping his eyes closed through pure force of will, against the instinct to open them. Hands close on his hips, thumbs rubbing small circles into the muscle as Damian exhales with obvious pleasure.

He wishes it hurt.

For a _moment_ , he wishes that Damian _didn't_ have the good in him, had taken him rough and painfully, so it could be more clear cut in his mind. Then the shame takes his breath, that he would actually _wish_ that a being had no good in them, just for his own comfort. That he would wish that someone with as _much_ good in them as his sight says Damian has would lose it and be as much of a monster as the people around him, just because of his own pain.

He shudders and Damian moves, taking him with too much care, with too much thought for his own pleasure and he— he just wants it to stop. He can _feel_ the corruption circling up his chest, sinking into his soul and he doesn't know how much he can take, how much he can lose before it becomes permanent.

Fingers curl around him and he chokes, hips lifting without his consent and that makes Damian's angle better, makes the pleasure sharper. He doesn't know how to fight the heat in his veins, doesn't know how to shut down the coil winding tight in his gut. He's never needed to before, never had to stop himself from enjoying the touch of another, when all of his past encounters have been born of love.

He can't do this.

He trembles, jerking against the chain holding his arms and twisting his head to the other side, baring his teeth and biting back a helpless cry. His power bursts free from his control, screaming beneath his skin and his eyes snap open underneath it, gaze rising to the ceiling as he shakes.

_Please_ , he begs in his own mind, power behind the words and God help him it's a prayer no one will ever hear. _Please, I can't do this. Help me. Make this stop! Please!_

The coil in his gut snaps and he arches, crying out in pain and loss and pleasure towards the ceiling as he falls apart. Damian is only a breath behind him, and he can feel the pleasure of the half-blood, feel the heat in him, hear the shout above him that's so different from his; untainted by any of the pain of this. He can feel the _enjoyment_.

For one bright, burning moment, he _hates_.

Then he's shaking, feeling the black of that hate spread into his soul even as he pushes it away. Even as he reminds himself that this is _not Damian's fault_. He may be the physical hand but the half-blood doesn't know better, even thinks he's doing the right thing to keep him _safe_. Misguided and raised wrong, but not _evil_. He can _see_ that.

Damian is careful when pulling away from him, hands gentle on his thighs as the half-blood slips out of him and shifts away. He closes his eyes again, squeezes them shut so he can only hear the pad of footsteps and doesn't have to watch. He listens to them slip away, then return, and ends up flinching when a cool, damp cloth wipes across his stomach. He tries to jerk away when it dips lower, but there's nowhere to go.

Nowhere for him to hide.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So, angst and pain this time. You know. As we do. But from Damian's PoV, so you get to see a bit more of what goes on in that murdering little head! XD Enjoy!

Jason won't speak to him.

Ever since he took the angel, ever since he watched its eyes burn bright with power as it cried out in release, watched the _glory_ of that pleasure, he's gotten nothing. Not a word, barely a look, and no trace of the quiet concession that he was starting to expect. Not friendliness, but that willingness to answer his questions and look him in the eye without obvious anger. It's gone, and he finds he misses it.

He's not certain how to soothe the pain the angel is obviously in. He's also not sure why it feels like he's the one who's lost something, when he's the one who took the angel's purity and not the other way around. Why is it that there's a pull in his chest that feels like the times he's disappointed his mother, like a hook buried in his flesh and pulling every time he looks at the bound, still angel?

Jason is sitting by the window, shutters pushed open and curtains pulled apart, leaning against the stone. The angel had rejected every touch, every inclination of help or comfort he found himself wanting to give, but had only moved as far as that window before curling down beside it. Its posture is overtly defensive, body turned away from him and towards the wall, so its wings act almost like a shield. Its head is resting against the stone sill of the window but tilted down towards its legs, eyes closed and hands pressed to the stone, like some kind of attempt at grounding itself.

He feels useless, keeping an eye on the angel as he slips around the room, cleaning up and putting things away. It feels like applying pressure to a wound when what it needs is stitches, like a stop-gap measure that he can't even find the eventual solution for. Making the bed, discarding the used clothes, and hiding away the supplies of its violation is not going to erase what he's done. What he had to do. But what else is there? What can he do to try and remove the wall built between them?

Carefully, he approaches the angel, sinking down in front of it. Jason doesn't even look at him, doesn't move, and he might think that the angel was asleep, if it weren't for the way its fingers curl against the stone a little bit at his presence. He doesn't know how to break the silence so he lets it be, watching the angel and trying to figure out some way of voicing his concern, without actually betraying any of the strange pulling in his chest, or making himself appear weak.

He isn't supposed to feel like he does, and he _knows_ that. He was never supposed to feel the weird reluctance to hurt the angel, or the hesitation to, or be as fascinated as he always was. He always did his very best to hide the fact that he had no real interest in harming the angel, no interest in making it suffer, no interest in _breaking_ it the way that his mother seemed to desire. It was the resilience that he enjoyed, the willingness to fight, the patience and skill lying behind those chains and that muzzle.

There's simply never been an option but to obey what his mother and grandfather desired, or endure whatever punishments they decided upon for his failures. He's always been criticized, from his very birth, for what his mother has called 'weakness.' He knew that if he ever let her see that he didn't have the same apparent bloodlust as them, she would make sure that he gained it, by whatever means necessary.

But here, with the angel, he knows he's let his guard slip some. He's let his fascination show, and through that his _weakness_. Removing the muzzle is a choice he can defend if questioned, as is being careful with the angel when he took it — excessive pain on its end would have made its corruption much harder — but all of the extra moments he cannot. Cleaning Jason, __admitting that he didn't want to hurt the angel, and admitting that he did not have a choice in his actions. Those are things that his mother would condemn and he's painfully aware of that fact. They're things that any of his family would condemn.

He _should not_ feel what he does around Jason.

But seeing the pain in the angel's eyes, seeing the clear rejection of him and his touch, disturbs him. He doesn't like it, wants _more_.

"Are you praying?" he whispers, hating the helpless edge to his words but unable to think of any other way of at least opening some kind of dialogue between them. This worked once before, so it can work again. Hopefully.

When was he reduced to _hoping_ for the outcome he desires? Shouldn't he be capable of simply making it happen? Forcing what he wants to become true, like he has his whole life? Or is it a truth he does not know yet, that angels cannot be forced the way that demons can? If he pushes, will he get what he wants, or will he break the angel? Will he lose what he most enjoys about being around Jason?

The angel's eyes open, head tilting slightly up to look at him. There's pain in those eyes, and a careful guarded edge, but at least there is not the fear that he was concerned he might have caused. Jason just looks at him, for several long moments that make him want to fidget, to draw himself away from that studying gaze. It almost lasts long enough that he pulls away, before Jason speaks.

"No," the angel says. "Healing."

There's a painful twist in the pit of his stomach. "I did not—”

"No," Jason says, cutting him off before he can finish asking if he hurt the angel. "It's not physical."

Silence again, until he breaks it by asking, "Then what is it? Whatever I have done, I did not mean to—”

"Yes you did."

He doesn't have an answer to that, and Jason sighs, eyes closing for a moment before the angel shifts. The wings on its back move, flaring outwards a few inches even though they can't actually spread thanks to the leather binds. His breath catches in his throat as he watches several feathers drift free of the bound wings, pure white things that fade to a dull grey as they fall.

"Your feathers," he murmurs, staring, "they're…”

"Falling out?" Jason finishes. "I know. They'll grow back in a couple hours or so."

"Why are they coming out?" he asks, staring at the husks on floor. "Mine have never done that."

A small snort, and then Jason tucks those bound wings flat again and leans into the stone. "They wouldn't. The feathers are… It's corruption. I'm trying to heal it."

That twist in his stomach gets a little stronger. "Can it be healed? I thought corruption was permanent. My teachers have said that when an angel falls, its wings turn black and it loses the ability to use its power. I thought it was… more immediate."

Jason shakes his head, and then shifts to turn a bit more away from him, which stings somewhere deep inside until he realizes that the angel is baring its wings. "Look," Jason murmurs. "See the black tips?" He barely has to look before he can nod. He remembers noticing that when he was first introduced to the angel. "The ones I lost will grow in like that. Being cast down is instant; that's probably what your teachers are thinking of. Corruption is… slow."

He stares at the black scattered through Jason's wings until the angel tilts them away again, then asks, "What causes it?"

That gets him a bark of sharp laughter, before Jason shakes his head and gives a tight smile that he's fairly sure is nothing but bitterness. "Not telling you or anyone else down here," Jason says, voice coming out flat even past the roughness of it. "My race keeps secrets for a reason."

"That is understandable," he agrees. Then he slowly reaches forward, and Jason tenses a bit, but then exhales and doesn't stop him. He lets his fingers lightly ghost over Jason's closer wing, tracing the length of the feathers and lingering over those black tips. His hand comes to one of the leather straps holding the wing bound, and he traces the runes etched and burned into the surface, feels the power in them and, dimly, feels the power they're containing.

"Do these hurt?" His voice comes out soft, as he spreads his hand out over the leather, feels the brush of feathers on either side.

Jason doesn't answer for a moment, and then, equally soft, says, "Yes. The bindings burn when I fight them, and my wings ache if I move them at all, or try to. That's stiffness. If they're ever freed, I should be able to heal that so I can use them again."

He thinks about what that might look like, imagines the width of the white wings spread and magnificent, imagines the _power_ he saw in them when he first glimpsed the angel. A _fierce_ desire lights in his chest to see that. To see Jason unbound and brilliant once again, without the binds on his wings or the shackles on his wrists. But logic stops him in his tracks, tamps that desire down because even though he _could_ make it a reality, right at this second, he would probably die for the mistake. Jason is not his friend or his ally, and if he let the angel have all that power back he just might lose the inevitable fight that will follow. He's stronger, but Jason has skill, experience, and desperation on his side. At the least, it would be a very tough battle.

"Did it satisfy?" Jason asks suddenly, and he pulls his hand away instinctively, looks back to those narrowed, blue-green eyes. "Did doing that make you feel like you _possess_ me, Damian?"

His breath catches, and then slowly, as if he _himself_ is possessed, he shakes his head. "No," he murmurs. "I— What I did was necessary but it did not— I did not enjoy it as I thought I would. It does not feel like I have any stronger hold on you than I did before."

There's a strange flicker to Jason's gaze, a sort of surprise, before it shuts away and the angel looks away from him, raising its chin to look out the window. But it doesn't have that edge of anger to its gaze anymore, those narrowed eyes or the tone that demanded an answer, so at least that's a touch better. Still, he feels uncomfortable, unwelcome and rejected, and he's not positive what to do about that.

Maybe he can offer something, some kind of gift to try and lower the new guard between them. He's a _prince_ down here, he has to have something that Jason wants. Something that would make life easier or at least soothe the distrust.

"Why do you like it here?" he asks idly. "Is it the window?"

Jason glances down, then gives a small shrug. The shackles on his wrists rattle. "I can feel the air, and see the sky. Not the real one — wrong color — but I haven't seen outside the cell for… a long time. Not until today."

He looks out the window, to the reddened sky that's all he's ever known. He knows that the ones above their realm, in Heaven and the human world, are generally blue, but he's never seen them in person. He has to guess, to a creature used to not only seeing but flying through those skies regularly, being confined so deep inside of stone must have been its own kind of torture as well.

Even as only half-angel, he fairly regularly gets the urge to just _fly_. It's something his mother and grandfather have never understood, and he's learned to hide.

He looks again at Jason's wings, and realizes how much _pain_ it must cause, to be bound to the ground and denied use of limbs that are so integral to your life. He can't imagine having his own wings taken from him; the thought both frightens him and makes him determined to rip to shreds anyone who would _dare_. He has to— He _wants_ to give Jason his wings back, to let the angel _fly_. But he cannot without unleashing all of that power; he doubts only the shackles would hold it. Perhaps he can replace the leather bindings instead, with some other kind of restraint he can pass off as for his own enjoyment.

He doesn't wish to hobble the angel either, or to muzzle it again, but maybe… maybe a collar would suffice, and it would be _easy_ to convince both his mother and the craftsmen that he wants a mark of proper ownership on the angel. It will be more difficult explaining why he's unbound the angel's wings, but he can come up with answers for that later.

He almost stands to have it made right at that second, before remembering that he is supposed to be enjoying his new toy. If he leaves now, there will be questions. He's going to have to wait until later to have this done.

"It is good you heal fast," he comments instead, gaze lingering near Jason's throat and at the bruises from their earlier fight. "I may enjoy the thought of leaving you marks as proof, but I feel— I feel as though I would enjoy the reality far less. The lack can be explained away."

Jason shifts after a moment, head turning and there's the sharp edge of that intelligence again, like how it showed up in his grandfather's enforced show. "If you healed the rest of my injuries, you could say that you prefer me undamaged; clear-skinned. That's the truth, isn't it? Easier to pass off than a straight out lie, and it would give you the excuse needed for why I'd never show up with anything more obvious, no matter how little time passed."

It's actually a remarkably good excuse, except, "Heal you?" He tilts his head a bit, confusion in his mind. "I don't have that power."

Jason actually looks equally confused, before pushing off the wall and facing him more directly. "What are you talking about? Of course you can; we all can. All angels can heal, Damian. You should be able to as well, shouldn't you?"

"Do you think I know?" he snaps, and then raises a hand to cover his mouth. "I did not—”

" _Oh_ ," Jason breathes, eyes widening a bit. "No one's taught you. I should have— I should have realized. How could you know anything about the angel part of you when there hasn't been anyone down here to teach you about it? Of course. That makes sense."

He drops his hand, glaring a bit as his wings flare a touch behind him. "I have done _fine_ on my own. I did not need anyone to _teach_ me what is part of me and what is not." He gets to his feet, frustrated for reasons he can't fully explain. "I _cannot_ heal. You are mistaken, angel."

He turns away, striding towards the bathroom. He requires a shower to be clean again anyway, it has _nothing_ to do with the angel at his back.

Until Jason calls, "You telegraph," at him, and he freezes in place.

It takes him a moment to turn around again, to take in the sight of Jason standing, watching him with calm surety. " _Excuse_ me?" he spits.

Jason shifts his weight, staring him down without flinching. "You telegraph your emotions through your wings like a kid; I'd bet that no one here has picked up on it because they aren't used to people with wings, but any angel could read how you feel like a _book_." He sucks in a sharp breath, stunned for a moment before he can even think to retaliate, and then Jason is already continuing. "You're clumsy with them by any measure we have too. You can balance with them, you know the basics of using them to give you an edge against a non-winged opponent, but any half-trained angel would wipe the floor with you in the air, and any warrior could take you apart on the ground too."

His hands clench. "How _dare_ you?" he demands. "I beat you, angel. I have spent my whole _life_ being trained to kill your kind and you think I am _clumsy?!_ I could tear you to shreds within the minute."

Jason's mouth curls into a small snarl, baring a hint of teeth and completely unfazed by his threat. "I am a weakened, bound, injured, __starved angel who has been captive and tortured for over a _decade_. You can't be delusional enough to think that I'm a real example of my kind. I'm a shadow, but I still outmaneuvered you and got my chain around your throat, didn't I? If these shackles were off, I could win a fight between us."

"Ridiculous," he snaps. "If you thought that I was fighting to my full potential in that _show_ than you are more than just delusional, angel. I was _testing_ you; you never had the advantage."

"Prove it."

He freezes, staring at the way Jason has his hands raised, the chain of the shackles stretched between them. The idea is absurd; _fighting_ the angel just to prove that he is superior, when it is already a given fact. He is _better_ , he is _stronger_ , and he was never in any danger from the angel's little tricks.

Jason's wrists lower after a few beats of silence, and the angel catches his gaze and then says, much quieter, "You've spent your whole life being trained by _demons_. Demons who have no idea how to teach you to fight with those wings because they've never had them. You use them, yes, but they should be _part_ of you. They _are_ part of you and it should be that natural to know how to fight with them, to _fly_ with them. There is a whole half of you that you're cut off from; the angel, the wings, the power, the _good_. If you can use the demon in you, you should be able to use the angel too. You can use the power my side of your heritage gives you, and you can heal; I'm sure of it."

He shifts his weight, studying the angel. "I do not need that half; I am powerful enough without the weaker part of me."

"Liar," Jason says. "You're fascinated. You want to know, and you want the rest of the power you're capable of. You really think I believe that you'd pass up the chance to get stronger and better skilled just because you've been told your whole life that angels are 'weaker' than demons? I don't think you believe that."

"Do _not_ insult my training," he snaps. "The entire discussion is pointless anyway, I do not have a teacher capable of teaching me to use angelic power, even if I am capable of it, which I do not believe. I am more demon than angel and I have no desire to allow the weaker parts of myself to gain any dominance. Whatever you believe you know about me, you are _mistaken_."

Jason's gaze darkens for a second with something gone too fast for him to read. "That goes both ways, half-blood. You're not the _exception_ you think you are. You might be one down here, but up in Heaven? You're so damn proud of all your training, all that 'since birth' stuff about how you're made to kill us but guess what? Every. Single. Angel is raised that way. We are an entire _race_ of warriors raised with discipline and strength and then fit to where our talents are best applied. You have no _clue_ how powerful we are, Damian, and it's gonna be a _nasty_ shock when you really meet one of us for the first time."

He glares, then stalks forward until he's facing the angel directly, close enough to strike if he wants to. "I do not need your warnings nor your insistence that I am something I am not, angel. You do not know how I was trained, you do not know my skill, and you do not know what I am capable of. You do _not_ know me."

"I know you're better than your mother wants you to be."

He jerks back half a step, then reverses it and snarls, "Explain what you mean or be _silenced_ , angel."

Jason is still utterly fearless, eyes narrowed but no hint of wariness in them. "You don't like causing pain, or seeing me suffer. You didn't leap at the chance to take me in front of that audience and show off all your power—”

"Just because I do not wish to share does not—”

"You _don't want to hurt me_."

He grits his teeth, glares up at the angel in defense of the strange tugging in his chest, the little voice in his head that says that whatever point the angel is trying to make, it isn't entirely groundless. There is something unnervingly accurate about whatever it is that the angel is saying.

Jason shakes his head, shoves out a breath that's too aggressive to be a sigh, and then meets his gaze with an equally unnerving amount of focus. "There's _good_ in you, Damian. You're not just a demon."

He finds himself shaking his head as well, stepping back and away from that gaze. "You are wrong. Whatever concept of 'good' you think I have—”

"I think," Jason interrupts, "that you've spent your whole life with everyone around you trying to grind out every bit of angel that they could find in you. I think your mother wanted a half-blood's power, but she never wanted the angel that came with it. I think she did her very best to make sure you _hated_ that part of yourself, because I also remember a younger boy who was criticized every time he let his wings show, who listened to _hundreds_ of lectures about how _weak_ angels were, how flawed, how _pathetic_."

A breath, a brief clench of hands, and then Jason continues. "I… What you did to me was wrong, it was _evil_ , but I also know that you did it because you really believed it was the best way for things to go. Maybe you're even right; I don't know. But I know I've seen kindness in you, I've seen concern and sympathy and I'm sure you would be hurt for that, if anyone but me were here to see it."

"Are you threatening me?!" He's floundering. He can't deny what Jason's saying because it's too true, too _right_ , but it shouldn't be. He shouldn't feel any of that, he shouldn't be letting it sway him, he shouldn't—

"No," Jason says, and the angel's voice has softened, is almost _gentle_. "No, Damian. I'm saying that if that's something you want, if you want to know more about your angel half than the propaganda and the lies they're feeding you, then I can do it. I can teach you how to use that power in you, how to heal, how to really _fly_."

"Why would you?" is his immediate demand. "I doubt that you have much desire to see me any stronger than I am, especially after what I have done to you. If this is some kind of test or attempt at changing who I am to fit your concept of _good_ , I can tell you now that it will fail and you will be _punished_ for the attempt."

"I don't want to change who you are, Damian. I just want to show you that there are other ways to do things. You don't have to be cruel and vicious and sadistic just to survive; not outside of Hell." The angel gives a small shrug. "And, hey, if you don't want to explore that, it's fine. I'll still teach you."

" _Why?_ "

"Paranoid little half-blood, aren't you?" Jason says with a snort. "Because you should know that there are other kinds of power. It's not all darkness and death; there's more to power than destruction. At least there is when it comes to an angel's power."

He stares up the few inches in height between them, trying to ferret out any source of deceit in the angel's eyes. "You would teach me this and expect… nothing? No payment? No trade?"

"Would it make you more willing to believe me if it was a trade?"

"Yes," is the blunt answer, and Jason gives a rough little laugh and looks towards the floor.

"Wow, alright. Uh…” A flash of pain, _bitterness_ , and then Jason grits his teeth for a moment before shoving out a breath and looking up to meet his gaze again. "My wings. I want my wings back. You take these straps off and I'll teach you anything you want."

Well, that falls neatly in with his own designs anyway. "Deal," he agrees. "Your wings in exchange for training." Jason nods, and he crosses his arms and considers his plans. "It is expected that I will still be… enjoying you. I will need perhaps a day before I can remove the leather while still containing your powers."

"Do I look like I'm in a rush?" Jason counters. "How about a little good faith on my end then? Let's sit down somewhere and see if I can teach you how to heal. Sound good?"

"It sounds adequate, I suppose. At worst you will simply fail and there will be no harm except for waste of my time. I still do not believe that you are entirely right about all of this, angel, but since I have nothing better to do until enough time passes for me to be seen outside…”

Jason is rolling his eyes, and then the angel moves its arms like it wants to cross its arms too, but the shackles draw tight and halt the movement. There's a moment where it feels like the angel doesn't know what to do, then the hands fall back down, the shackles rattling a bit with the aborted gesture. Those blue-green eyes fall to the shackles, before Jason shoves out another breath and all but yanks his gaze away and across the room.

"Before that, I need— I would _like_ to be clean. For obvious reasons. Clothes would be good too but I'm assuming you haven't got any that'll fit me. Right?"

"That… is correct," he admits. "There are the pants I removed from—”

"I'll deal," Jason snaps, and then shakes his head and raises both hands to drag over his face. "Sorry, I— No. I'm fine; it's not like it's that big a deal anymore. Just, whenever you've got a chance, if you care." A sharp breath, as he stares at Jason and tries to decipher the expression on the angel's face. "Bathroom, right?" Jason asks, with a flick of both bound hands towards the door across from the room.

He's barely gotten the, "Yes," out of his throat before Jason is moving, circling wide around him and heading for it. He turns to keep Jason in his sights. "Are you—”

"I'll be back," Jason says without turning. "Just— I'll be back."

The door shuts behind the angel, and it makes him feel strangely helpless. He considers going after the angel, making sure he knows how to work the bath, the shower, but… Maybe it would be better if he did not. Jason clearly does not feel entirely comfortable around him and there is… something wrong. He does not know precisely what it is, and he has no idea how to begin to fix it, but perhaps not encroaching on the angel's space is a viable first step.

Perhaps _not_ doing anything, is the right thing to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Here we are, back to regularly scheduled updates. Enjoy!

As it turns out, Damian is utterly terrible at healing. Or, at anything related to his angel powers at all. Not that he really should have expected anything else, but that only occurs to him after the first time demonic power sizzles into his skin and makes him yelp, mostly out of surprise. The burn over his bruised side is minor, but entirely unexpected.

He also ends up jerking several feet away before he can reign in the impulse, and he has to fight to make himself come close to the half-blood again.

He's trying _very_ hard not to clue Damian in on exactly how bad the rape affected him, but it's not entirely working. The half-blood clearly knows something is wrong, even if he doesn't seem entirely aware of what it is and seems even less aware of what he definitely shouldn't be doing. Every time Damian reaches for him he wants to snap at him to stay away, to not touch him, but he fights that down too. He can't help the tension, or the little flares of panic that lodge in his throat and make it even harder for him to speak — his power seems to be working on healing the damage that not speaking has done — but he can at least manage to not become violent. He has enough control for that.

Still, it's a torture all its own to have Damian's fingers resting on his skin, his wings, his face. His instinct is to draw away, but he _can't_ and still teach this lesson. However difficult it's proving, Damian needs someone to practice on, and he's the only person available. He's not blind enough to think that Damian showing up in front of his mother with burns would be just fine; but it can be explained as sadism or punishment if he's the one with burns instead. She muzzled him for a reason; she'll probably just assume that the burns were Damian's way of hurting him for fighting, either verbally or physically.

Not that the truth is much better.

Damian is clearly getting frustrated with the lack of success, and he's starting to wear thin too. He doesn't like being touched, and the pain is minor but he has to just sit and wait for it to come, and that takes more control than anything else. Just sitting there _waiting_ while Damian touches him, with the almost definite chance that this attempt at healing is going to turn to pain too, is straining his control. Every time he gets burnt there's a little more irritation in him, a little more panic, and it takes longer to block it out again.

"Easy," he murmurs, watching Damian's closed eyes and trying not to think about the fingers resting on his right thigh, over the bruises and the already singed skin. "Slowly now, just focus on the picture we talked about. Think about watching the bruises fade, watching the skin mend. Just—”

"Shut _up_ , angel," Damian snaps, and he can feel the power surge a second before it hits him.

He hisses, flinching back at the fresh burn to his thigh, at the feeling of the dark power on his skin. Damian's fingers jerk away, and he looks up in time to watch Damian's eyes open, and see the sharp anger in the curl of that mouth into a sneer. He braces himself automatically, struggling not to pull away, or snap back, or react more violently.

"I _know_ what you have told me," Damian spits at him. "Stop repeating yourself, Jason, it is _clearly_ not working and I am growing sick of your voice! Be _silent_ before I retrieve that muzzle and make sure you never speak again."

His hands curl into fists, pain and fear quickly bringing anger that he has to swallow away, has to beat down. "It's not going to be instant," he placates. "Most angels learn from birth how to use their powers; teaching someone older is a different kind of challenge. It could take awhile to work."

"You have said that too. _Give_ me that."

He automatically starts to draw back as Damian grabs his leg, fingers brushing the edge of the burn. "It's not going to work if you try to— _Ah!_ " He jerks back, pulls his leg in instinctively to protect the more serious burn as he gets out of immediate grabbing range of the half-blood. "What do you think you're doing?!" he demands.

"What you _told_ me to," Damian says back, shifting forward to match his retreat, wings raised in anger and tension. "Come _back_ so I can try again, angel."

"I don't think so." He bats Damian's hand away with his bound ones, baring his teeth to try and dissuade any further touches. "Clearly you're _not_ doing what I'm telling you or it would be working instead of burning me!"

"Then you are either explaining it wrong or you are incorrect but either way you are a _terrible_ teacher! Perhaps I should forget our entire deal and keep your wings bound until you improve!"

He's striking before he can even think to stop it, twisting his leg out and _slamming_ his foot into the center of Damian's chest, flinging the half-blood a few feet back with a rush of expelled air. "I'm doing the best I can!" he shouts, shifting to a crouch so he has at least a little bit of maneuverability.

Damian rolls back up, wings flaring wide and intimidating and the rush of _hatred_ and _envy_ is sickening even as it keeps him from drawing away and remembering the spread of those wings over him, the feeling of fingers on his hips, the _heat_.

"So am I!" Damian shouts back, oblivious to his internal issues.

He expects to be attacked, but that doesn't mean that he's ready for it. He's drained, weak, his skin stings in a dozen places, and he feels far too slow to respond when Damian crashes into him and slams him onto his back. He fights, grappling as best he can, but the half-blood is just plain stronger and his hands end up behind his head again and pinned down by that shackle, Damian between his legs and in a sharp burst he just—

"Get _off_ of me!" he roars, adrenaline and fear working together to make him _furious_ as he writhes and hits whatever he can reach with his legs, snapping his teeth and trying to get his hands to bend far enough that he can claw at the fingers holding them down. "Don't _touch_ me!"

He twists himself farther than he thought possible, gets a leg up between them and jams his knee into the undoubtedly sore spot on Damian's chest to push him up a few inches. Gets his other leg up the next moment and _kicks_ , hitting Damian's hip and making the half-blood exhale a sharp sound of pain as one leg goes out from under him. He kicks again, gets a solid hit into Damian’s gut, before Damian's free hand grabs his thigh and shoves it down, holding him open and pinned and that just makes it all _worse_.

Damian is drawn far enough back that he can lash out with his other leg, and this time he puts every _ounce_ of strength into it, letting his heel hit the half-blood's ribs with enough force that there's the kind of muted crack that comes with broken bone. Damian's grip loosens with a gasp, and he twists and struggles and manages to shove Damian far enough back that he can get out from under him. He scrambles backwards until his wings and back jam up against wood, and he snarls and curls in on himself, teeth bared in frenzied desperation.

"Don't touch me," he repeats, "don't you _fucking_ touch me."

Damian is staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, a hand resting over his side and the other braced against the ground. “Jason?”

“Don’t—” He curls in tighter, fingers digging into his own skin as he tries to calm the frantic, sharp pace of his breathing, to just feel his own hands and nothing else. Tries to feel anything but the awful, open feeling of vulnerability and violation, and still he hates and hates and _hates_ and he can’t seem to stop it.

He shudders, pressing back harder against the wood digging in between his shoulders, itching to spread his wings or lash out but he _can’t_. It’s not going to help the sickening, black _hatred_ seeping into him, or the aching pain spreading up into his wings because he can’t calm down, can’t get the memory of forced pleasure out of his head or the feeling of phantom hands on his skin to go away. There’s just heat and the pressing stone and it’s too much, too close, he _can’t_ —

Hands are dragging him to his feet, and he cries out in surprise and fear and tries to jerk away, but the grip is like steel and he’s being pulled across the room by it, staggering along beside Damian. He fights, but he’s not strong enough to escape before he’s being pressed down and one hand is tugging his head up as Damian presses against his back.

“ _Look_ ,” Damian presses, fingers unyielding but not painful in his hair. “Look, see that?”

He’s shaking, but his eyes find the window, right in front of him, the sky outside. He jerks a bit, and then feathers are brushing over his shoulders and he jerks harder as Damian’s black and golden wings wrap around him, the hand in his hair letting go to rub firmly between his shoulder blades, up between his wings. His breath catches in his throat, but his gaze stays fixed on the sky, his focus on the brush of air against his face.

“Breathe,” Damian murmurs against his neck, still rubbing at his back as the other hand wraps around his chest, finding one of his hands and interlacing their fingers. “The sky is right there, Jason. Just look at it and breathe.”

Slowly, with the pressure of that hand at his back, and the brush of feathers against his skin, he feels himself calming down. The shaking eases down to faint trembles, and he manages to lean himself forward against the stone, lowering his head to rest against it as his breathing finally slows to normal. The sick feeling of black corruption lingers deep in his chest, as does the aching of his wings, but the hatred he strangles out and shoves away, helped by the murmur of quiet words at the back of his neck.

Damian pauses after a long while, hand stilling on his back. “Are you alright?” For a fraction of a second it sounds like a child’s prayer, hopeful and a little frightened as it wavers in the middle of the sentence.

He breathes out, long and slow, and then shifts his head in a small nod. “Better,” he manages. “How did you…?”

Damian’s still pressed to his back, warm and solid, and the hand between his shoulders hesitates before rubbing once up and down. “I have dealt with feeling… confined, myself. I do not understand the rest of what is happening in your mind, but being wrapped in my own wings has always made me feel safer, and I guessed that it would help you as well.” Another hesitation, and the wings around him shiver a little. “I can stop, if you wish. You did— You did demand I not touch you.”

He winces, presses his head to the stone, and then squeezes the fingers interlaced with his. “No, I— This is alright. I was just worn a little thin by the burns and I— I freaked out.” He turns a little bit, enough to look over his shoulder and meet Damian’s gaze, finding it hesitant and uncertain. “I shouldn’t have hit you; sorry.”

“I should not have insulted or threatened you,” Damian murmurs back. “It is not your fault I lack the power I should have.” Damian’s hand pulls loose from his, then traces gently up his arm to one of the burns, where it lingers. “I— I did not mean to harm you. But this power…” He can feel the heat sliding up Damian’s arm as the half-blood’s hand turns palm up, power gathering at his fingers. “It does not have any use but to cause pain and I—”

“Damian,” he interrupts, tilting his head down a bit to where Damian’s fingers are glowing with soft, white light. “Look.”

Damian sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening. “That— Is that—?”

Before he can answer, Damian’s turned the hand over, and there’s a cautious grip over the burn on his arm. He tilts his head back as warmth spreads into his skin, easing the sting and pain of the minor burn as he closes his eyes. He can recognize the feeling of being healed, and he ends up sighing out a soft breath of relief at it and doing his _very_ best not to just collapse into a painfully relieved heap.

It's _true._ Damian can use his angelic powers, he has good in him, he's _not_ completely lost. What he's been through might not all have been for nothing, now that there's a theoretical chance that he can make this work and save the half-blood. The pain, humiliation, and violations were just prices he had to pay to get to this point, and there is _so much good_ in Damian that how could he possibly forfeit all of that now, just for the sake of his own pain? He has to try. He has to make this work if he can; everyone capable of it deserves the chance to choose the good in them.

If he can just show Damian there's a different way than what he's been raised believing, maybe this can go the way it's supposed to.

He shifts into Damian's touch, swallowing away his unease and pushing it to the farthest corners of his mind. Damian didn't know better; _doesn't_ know better. As far as he can tell the half-blood has no real concept that what he's done is wrong, only that he didn't enjoy it and so doesn't want to do it again. Maybe — hopefully — some of that is influenced by the fact that _he_ didn't enjoy or want what was done. There has to be at least a _little_ bit of instinct in there, doesn't there? Or is it just that Damian won't do what he has no desire to do?

It's been proven that Damian doesn't want to hurt him, but is perfectly willing to if required, or if he's angry or feels threatened. It's also true that Damian doesn't seem to want to rape him again, but he's pretty sure that's because it didn't give the rewards or enjoyment that Damian wanted from it. Damian's said that he wants to possess him; rape didn't satisfy that but he's pretty sure those desires haven't gone away. He's pretty sure that if Damian thought it would get him what he wanted, he'd be willing to do just about anything. It's not exactly a good sign.

No, he _can't_ think like that.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, partially to distract himself. " _That's_ what it's like. That's the angelic half of you."

Damian's hand is sliding to the next burn, leaving behind smooth skin, and the half-blood's wings flutter a bit around him. He almost smirks at the clear excitement. "It is so _soft_ ," Damian marvels. "Does it always feel like this, even when wielded to cause damage?" He nods instead of answering verbally, and gets another flutter of those black and golden wings as Damian presses even closer against his bound wings, chin pressing to his shoulder to look down his chest and presumably at the path of the healing hand.

He lets himself relax a bit, closing his eyes again and leaning back into Damian's touch. It's easy to feel one of his brother's touches instead; the gentle hand healing wounds taken in one battle or another, with the wrap of their wings around him to hold him steady until it was done. He doesn't _quite_ let himself slip into that fantasy, but he does let himself think of past memories of that feeling. Or, of having one of his brothers in front of him, holding them wrapped up in the spread of his wings just to feel them against him.

With a pang of homesickness, he realizes how very much he misses touch, and the safety of his brothers’ presence. No need to watch his back, no need to guard, no need to fear their touch or how close they were. He misses knowing that the fingers on him are safe, and would _never_ hurt him. He misses Bruce's unyielding, sturdy support, and the touch of those big, sure hands. He misses smiles and laughter and the brush of the sky's wind as it lifted and ruffled his brothers' hair.

The ache of his wings brings him sharply back down, and he struggles not to show the wash of pain in his chest at the feeling of some of his feathers coming loose.

Even if, somehow, he can manage to turn Damian to the right path, even if he can get them both out of Hell, it might be too late. Damian is a half-blood, and too rare and powerful to be denied entry, but the corruption in _him_ … Right now, if he gets time and space to himself to meditate, to search his own soul and try to recover, he might be able to reverse the effects. But if he doesn't, or if he continues to feel these swells of envy and _hatred_ …

The corrupted aren't allowed in Heaven. Not the ones too badly fallen to recover.

_God,_ he prays, drawing in a deep breath, _let this happen quickly_. _Please_.

Eventually Damian stops, and he can almost feel the studying gaze sweep down his body. "Is that all of it?" is the question; surprisingly quiet, considering. Maybe Damian is feeling the importance of the moment even more than he is.

He shifts, opening his eyes and pulling a bit away from Damian so he can check in with his own body, and scan his visible skin for any lingering bruises or other marks. "That's it," he confirms.

He almost shivers when Damian's wings pull away, exposing him to the rest of the room again, but manages to stop the response from getting any further than some slight tension. Damian's hands are the next thing to leave — that one he's pretty relieved about — and then he turns as the half-blood moves away from his back, looking over his shoulder first to track Damian's movements. Which is why he catches the tightening of Damian's mouth and the unhappy edge to his gaze, and tracks it to his own wings and the feathers that have shaken loose. Right.

"It's fine," he mutters. Damian starts to move forward, one hand rising, and he snaps, " _No!_ " sharply enough that Damian immediately stops. He gentles his voice to add, "That's not something you can heal, Damian. It's not that easy."

Damian still looks vaguely upset, but at least he doesn't press it. "But, you said you _can_ heal this, didn't you? So only you can?"

He dips his head a bit in confirmation. "With time, and work. There's no cheat to this; I have to work through it on my own."

Damian gives a short nod, raising his chin to declare, "If there is any assistance I can give; ask. I can acquire anything you need." Damian seems utterly confident in that idea, and utterly convinced that whatever he might need, it will be just items and _things_. If only it were that easy.

He manages a tiny, crooked smirk that probably looks more pained than real. Damian doesn't react, if it does. "I need time to myself, and silence."

At that, Damian frowns a tiny bit, drawing back another few inches before looking over at the door. "I cannot leave for now; likely I will not be able to until the night has passed if I wish to give the appropriate appearance. I can… study some of my texts, if that is quiet enough. How much time will you need?"

He can only shrug and offer, "I don't know. That… That should work."

He looks around the room, taking in the stone floors and the minimalistic furniture. The room isn't quite utilitarian, but it certainly doesn't prioritize comfort. A few less books and it probably wouldn't even look lived in. Clearly however Damian's been raised, it didn't leave him with an appreciation for things. Or, maybe he isn't allowed to have anything more than what's necessary. Honestly, he can see either being completely true, maybe even both.

Which only leaves him with the bed to sit on if he wants to be comfortable, which is a necessity for inner work like this. That same little thrill of unease makes itself known, but he pushes it aside again. It's not ideal, but it might be a good first step. If he can put aside the relation of the bed to his violation, maybe then he can get to work on forgiving the whole thing. Or at least forgiving Damian's part in it to start with, and easing away his ability to feel hatred for the half-blood. That's the most important part.

If he can just accept that Damian has done what he's had to, and that because of his life so far Damian doesn't fully understand what he's done, then he can set himself to trying to redeem the half-blood and show him a better way. He _has_ to; that's why God's put him down here, isn't it? It _has_ to be.

"Just, leave me alone as long as you can," he tells Damian, as he gets to his feet.

Damian follows him up and answers, "I will. Is there anything else you need?"

He bites down on the urge to say, 'just some luck', and shakes his head. Damian nods, and he starts to move, circling around the half-blood so he can get to the bed. He forces himself to climb up onto it, smoothing the top blanket out to feel at least a little bit better when he sits down crossed-legged in the center, facing out into the room. Damian is moving, and he _wants_ to track the half-blood until he settles, but he makes himself close his eyes instead and take a slow, deep breath.

He still can't manage to really settle himself until the sounds of Damian's movements have stopped, but it at least paves the way beforehand. Once there's relative silence, and he's breathing in a steady, carefully regulated pattern, he lets himself sink further down into his own head. Past the surface layers of control to where he's just existing, and then he turns attention to his soul, and to all of the things shoved down and away that he's yet to really deal with. _That's_ what he has to face. Starting with anything to do with Damian, and then, if he somehow manages to get all of that fixed, he can move onto the rest.

He braces himself, and settles in to face his own corruption.

* * *

What has to be hours later he stirs, bringing himself back up to the surface and real consciousness. He blinks his eyes open, not moving quite yet but just existing, letting himself float inside the last bits of calm left over from his work.

He didn’t get as much done as he wanted to, but he’s better than when he went in and he’s going to consider that a win; he has few enough of those as it is without denying himself one that’s a little questionably earned. If he could just get the opportunity to do this on a fairly regular basis, he might be able to at least neutralize anything else done to him. Hopefully. What he really needs is a solid week or two to himself, focused on just coming to terms with what he’s let himself do and his feelings, but that’s just not going to happen down here. This is probably the best he can manage.

He lets his gaze focus, sweeping the room for Damian and finding him at the table across the room. Not leaned down over it, or reading any of the thick books on it, but pushed back and away from it in the chair he’s sitting on, watching his own hands. The half-blood is summoning power to his fingertips, first inky blackness and then the soft white glow he’s just been taught, alternating between them in a seemingly random pattern. There’s intense concentration in the half-blood’s expression, and as he watches, Damian lets that white power wash over the rest of him, flaring from his fingertips and brightening his eyes. The golden feathers he has _shine_ for a moment, before Damian lets the power ease away again.

“That’s not bad,” he comments, keeping his voice soft so it doesn’t startle Damian too badly.

Damian’s head snaps towards him, eyes widening for a moment as those black and gold wings jump, fluffing out just a touch. Then it eases away to calmer confidence, as Damian slips from the chair and stands up. Power flares, and he watches the white glow shine brighter until Damian lashes out, sharp and violent and thankfully _not_ in his direction, and a slice of that power snaps out, dissipating harmlessly into the stone on impact. He’s sure that if it had hit an actual person the result would have been much nastier.

“The feeling is different,” Damian says, chin lifting as that confidence slips closer to arrogance, “but the procedure is the same. Once I knew what it was supposed to feel like, it did not take much work to replicate that, and apply my other lessons to the new style. I do not know how I missed it to begin with.”

“You have to want it.” Damian’s head lifts, and he explains as the half-blood moves closer. “You couldn’t reach it until you wanted the power to heal me, which makes sense. You’ve been taught all your life that angels are inferior; why would you want the power of one?”

Damian looks vaguely uncomfortable, arms crossing but gaze meeting his squarely. “Power is power, no matter its source. I should have—”

“You didn’t.” He shifts, sliding out of cross-legged so he can stretch out a little bit, and crack his neck. “It’s fine, Damian; you’ve got it now, so the rest doesn’t matter.” He reaches up, wiping the evidence of tear tracks from his cheeks and then the lingering dampness from the corner of his eyes.

“You seemed in pain,” Damian comments, voice soft and almost uncertain. “I nearly intervened.”

“Good you didn’t. Pain’s necessary.” It sucks, but you just can't heal corruption without having to face the issues that caused it, and that's… that's painful.

“But you did accomplish what you were attempting?" Damian doesn't sound real pleased at the idea that he's been in pain, but honestly he doesn't have the energy to try and decipher the half-blood's peculiarities right now.

"It's not that simple," he decides to answer, "but yeah. Some of it, anyway." He lets his gaze slip past Damian, to the table. "Weren't you going to be studying?"

Damian frowns for a moment. "I did. You were still for a… long time. A very long time." Damian glances back towards the table, arms crossing. "So are you fixed, or do you require more of this type of healing?"

He shakes his head. "I don't have the energy for any more right now. Need a break; some sleep." He looks down at the bed underneath him. That thrill of unease is gone, but it's still not that welcome of an idea to have to share the bed with the half-blood that actually owns it. "I assume we're not sharing this. Is there a like, fold out or something? Anywhere else besides the floor?”

"I… do not usually have company," Damian admits, in a very quiet voice. "I will have something retrieved; it has been long enough that I may leave without suspicion." A small pause, and then Damian holds his gaze to say, "You will have to be restrained, while you sleep. Do you understand?"

That's like a sudden blow to the middle of his chest, but he brushes it aside and exhales to keep himself relatively calm. Because he _does_. "I think so, but how about you tell me why just so I'm clear about it?"

Damian gives a single sharp nod. "Well, it is partially because I do not fully trust you not to slit my throat as I sleep, and I believe you are capable of moving quietly enough to surprise me, if you wished to. Secondly, if someone were to enter and see you sleeping without restraints, there would be questions I could not answer. The only two capable of breaching my wards would be my mother and grandfather, but it is not all that rare for them to visit unannounced. With you here, that will be more likely."

After a moment of silence, in case Damian has more to say, he concedes, "That's fair. Alright, just, try to do it in some way that _isn't_ going to hurt after a couple hours?"

"I will do my best," Damian agrees. "You will need to be restrained while I am gone as well, for similar reasons. I… do not yet have anything secure to tie you to but the loop at the head of the bed. Will that be a problem?"

He swallows, but manages to shake his head. "I'll manage. Just, no legs this time?"

"Of course; it is not necessary."

He shifts backwards on the bed, lowering himself to lie down on it and raise his hands to Damian. He has to fight with himself the whole time, but he manages to push down everything but a small shudder when Damian hooks the shackles to that loop and then steps away. He tests the chain even though he knows it won't break, and then exhales long and slow as Damian pulls away and steps back.

"I will return as soon as possible," Damian promises, then hesitates for a moment before turning and striding towards the door.

He waits until Damian is gone, and the door falls shut behind him, to move at all. It's then that he curls himself up, twisting until he manages to get beneath at least the top couple blankets. It makes him feel a bit better not to be totally exposed to the world, even if it's just him and the empty room.

Then he shuts his eyes, turns his head into his arm, and lets himself rest.


End file.
